Author: Alexander Fawn

The two scientists were running even more tests.

The voles that were being studied were of the Microtus Fortis type, commonly known as the Reed Vole. Not much research had been carried out on these cute little rodents. The director of the institute had ordered a more thorough study of the creatures with emphasis being placed on their cognitive abilities. Although the research was being carried out to prove that these tiny creatures had no more native intelligence than any other similar rodent, they were deliberately sourced from Guatemala. It was in this part of the world that the legends have been rife for centuries that the animals had mystic powers. Quite naturally, the two men tasked with carrying out the prescribed experiments were scientists. They based their work on science as opposed to myth. Both were experienced mammologists, specialising in mammals.

Their best subject was a male. He certainly performed much better than the others when they were all put through the same testing regime. He was a large, particularly stocky creature with rather smaller ears than most, with cute little orange teeth and a thick fur coat of a striking mix of brown and grey. As small dumb animals go, he was really quite personable. Although he had excelled in all test scores overall, these were by no means consistent. It was as though there were times when he just couldn’t be bothered. The testing being carried out for cognitive behaviour was only very basic. While the object of any such programme was, as always, to measure the subject’s ability to think, know, remember, judge and problem-solve, the simple tests being carried out by the two researchers were all based on what could be reasonably expected from a vole.

The exceptionally high scores being attained by Rodney, their name for him, when he was observed to be making some sort of effort were definitely well outside of the norm. The fact that he seemed to display what looked like some kind of personality was reflected in the fact that they had quite spontaneously given him a name.

Completely out of the blue, one said, “Do you ever get the feeling that Rodney is watching us?”

The other was taken by surprise by the question, but thought about it for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “He does seem to be much more interested in us and what we are doing, compared with any of the others.”

“Nothing more than just interested, you think?”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh! I don’t know; maybe I’m imagining it, but I get the feeling that he’s actually carefully observing, as opposed to just watching.”

The other shook his head with a grin. “Ooh! Steady on. This is a vole we’re dealing with here. It’s just a vole.”

The first man sighed. “Yes. You’re probably right. Maybe I should take more regular breaks?”

The other rolled his shoulders. “It probably wouldn’t do either of us any harm to make sure that we go off and stretch our legs from time to time, after all we’ve been doing this nonstop for a number of days.” He patted his colleague on the arm. “In fact, let’s go and get hot drinks and sit it out for a few minutes.”

After the other nodded his agreement, he peered into Rodney’s cage and said, “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a short break either, little guy.”

Rodney watched them go.

He thinks, I hope I didn’t overdo it with those high scores… I only want to keep them interested. He rolls over in his comfy bed of straw. The longer I can keep this research project going, the better. I have everything a guy could want here; accommodation, food, nice people, a bit dumb, but nice. One of them said my coat was attractive the other day. Maybe one of them will keep me as a pet? Let’s face it, anything to avoid going back to that stinking marshland hole in Guatemala!

They each sat analysing.

The conversation that broke the silence, went something like…

First – “It’s interesting, don’t you think?”

Second – “What?”

First – “That they seem to have so many Gods!”

Second – “Well… yes.”

First – “I suppose it’s some sort of holy compartmentalising. A god for this, a God for that; Hindus for instance.”

Second – “Yes, but more generally, there is a great deal of division.”

First – “They have had many wars.”

Second – “Some of them still raging, I see.”

First – “Right. Several land masses separated by oceans. Inevitable that differences would not always be understood, or even fully known about or seen for what they are, I suppose.”

Second – “Yes. Looking at their history, each developing from scratch. No means of standardisation.”

First – “True. Different languages, with various forms of government, different currencies. Each with their own levels of progress; their individual stages of civilisation.”

Second – “The more you look, the more you see; in far greater detail, I mean.”

First – “Their skin colour, customs and lifestyles, you mean?”

Second – “Yes, but beyond that. No standardisation for the preparation of food, or the side of the road they use when they travel, or the colour coding for their wiring systems. The closer you look, the sheer diversity of it is remarkable.”

First – “We are looking at a very early stage of civilisation.”

Second – “Agreed.”

First – “Sufficiently reported, would you say?”

Second – Sufficient.”

One of several slender digits gently touched a single facet of the star drive crystal causing a soft hum throughout the craft.

First – “Nothing much of interest here. Let’s move on.”

The ship slipped away into the blackness.

The electrician had finished his work and was packing up.

The lady of the house had mentioned that her husband, tucked away at the back of the house, was a writer. She mentioned, in a throw away manner, that he posted his stories on a blog. “Feel free to pop your head in,” she had said. When he was ready to leave, although he knew the man at the back was a private individual, he thought he would take up the suggestion and say hello, if only to be polite. He wandered up the hall and found the door partly open.

As he stepped in, he looked around at a nicely appointed study. The husband, who’d been tapping away on a laptop, looked up. With unfocused eyes, he said, “All done?”

The man nodded. Feeling awkward, and with an embarrassed smile, he blurted out, “Well, what’s this all about then?”

The husband raised his eyebrows. “Ah! Well, I’m glad you asked. Getting to the nub of it, my short stories are compressed pieces of prose fiction, with each one dealing briefly with a slice of life. In all cases, they are designed to be read in a single sitting. They give a fleeting glimpse into the worlds of others. In the main, they are created with the aim of enabling the reader to focus momentarily on some incident or event that is, in itself, self-contained. They are typically written using between one-hundred and three-hundred words. The intention here being to quickly evoke within the reader a corresponding sense of mood. The standalone nature of the piece is intended to be a match with the nature of the reading of it.”

The man just stood for a while, looking perplexed.

The writer said, “I scribble.”

He stood looking at the painting.

It was a perfect example of modern expressionism. He knew that he was looking at so much more than just a painting. It could be seen that the heart and soul behind the hand that held the brush was being captured in these strokes, these moments of pure, unadulterated expressionism. Here and there he saw a deliberate splash of vibrant colour. He felt that the structure of the piece gave the viewer a sense of being granted permission to glimpse the random foundation on which it was built. He considered the fact that each prominent form was in perfect balance with its surroundings, and that the choice of colours were deliberately placed to catch the eye. He marvelled at the deliberate juxtaposition of brush strokes. He considered the fact that there was a brave projection of both unrestrained proportion and holistic composition, and beneath it all, a sense of experimentation.

He considered it to be a true masterpiece.

I know she’s only five, he thought, and the fact that she’s my daughter has a lot to do with it… but a masterpiece is still a masterpiece, right?

As a young single man he found that he preferred women who wore glasses.

He sat pondering about it. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t feel that way. He guessed that it was simply a case of how he saw them. Do they make a woman look more intelligent? Perhaps that was it. There again, it may have been some film star that he subconsciously associated with any woman wearing them. Or did it go even deeper than that. His mother wore glasses, and he had always loved his mother. Whatever it was, he imagined this had been some psychological thing that had developed over time.

He was still slouched in his armchair thinking about all this, when a thought struck him. It occurred to him that any woman who had to wear glasses, obviously had poor eyesight. He got up and went into the bathroom.

Maybe it is because… he looked in the mirror, because if truth be told, he really was quite ugly.

A daydream can be a cleansing thing,

It can be a therapy.

It can gently stir the soul,

When it’s done deliberately.

–

Arrange the images for your own delight.

Encourage those peaceful to be posed.

Whether in colour or black and white,

It’s best when the eyes are closed.

Enter the spread of the cosmos.

Where the one can become the many.

Float in an ocean of silence,

Working through shadows of memory.

–

Let the mental leaves fall,

As they slowly fill the void.

Let it all come to rest,

With a sense of repose employed.

–

Find somewhere quiet and safe,

And images form coherently.

Don’t close the door once opened.

It really is a therapy!

She rushed along the hall, shivering.

She had slipped a coat on over her nightie. It wasn’t the cold, it was her jangling nerves that had her shaking. That nice old man at the front desk will sort this out, she thought. She ran into the reception area. It was dimly lit. She hadn’t stopped to look at the time, she only knew that it was late evening. There was no one around, so she went to the counter looking for a bell. The place was eerily quiet and she felt a touch of panic creeping in. No bell in sight. She called out a couple of times and got no response. She went behind and looked underneath for it; nothing. She straightened up and checked the counter top again. She moved some magazines and found the button. She gave it a good press and waited.

She noticed a small red light was flashing under the counter that wasn’t there before. She went to one of the armchairs and slumped into it. Calming down a little, she was disappointed and thought about how the guesthouse had been personally recommended by a friend.

After several minutes the man appeared in his dressing gown. Trying hard to smile through a sleepy face. He went to the counter and pointed to the button.

“I take it you pressed this, yes?”

“Yes…” she began.

“Oh! Well, can’t be helped,” he muttered, looking up at the clock.

She pushed herself up out of the chair. “What do you mean?”

“You weren’t to know, I suppose. We’ve had a bit of trouble. That’s the duress button!”

Her eyes widened.

“It goes straight to the local police station,” he said, looking at the clock again. “Should be here any minute.”

She was trying to take everything in and went to speak.

He quickly asked, “Anyway, how can I help you?”

“There’s a spider on my bedroom ceiling.”

The moment she entered the antique shop she knew something wasn’t… wasn’t quite right.

She had often walked through the narrow passage that brought her here and would swear it had never been here before. It was only her love of books that stopped her from turning around and leaving. Besides, this dingy, little shop with its walls crammed with old editions had intrigued her when peering through the dirty front window. She stood inside for a moment, breathing in the age of the place. She could see nothing but books. Nobody seemed to be in attendance. There was something unnerving about it. Shrugging off the foreboding atmosphere, she began to stroll along the nearest shelf, reading titles. One instantly caught her eye. The spine, although obviously very old, was her favourite shade of purple and had the strange title of ‘Her Book”.

She slid it out, caressing the cover and sniffing it. There was something special about it. Opening it, she looked inside expecting a price to be pencilled there, but there was nothing. She looked around again, but found she was still alone. She turned to the first page and read, Chapter One. The moment she entered the antique shop she knew something wasn’t… wasn’t quite right.

Without hesitation, she quickly closed the book and left!

The woman had travelled a long way that day.

The principality of Asturias, a region of northwest Spain, was particularly picturesque at that time of year, but she had hardly noticed. She was naturally tired with stiff joints when she climbed down from the bus. As the vehicle pulled away she crossed the road and stood taking in the scene, one that she remembered, the place she had left two decades before. This was a tiny medieval village and a tourist attraction; but she was not a tourist. She still had a distance to walk, but although exhausted from the journey she would steel herself for what lay ahead.

As planned, she arrived at the old bakery shop a little before closing time.

It was empty when she entered. She stood looking around for several moments before moving forward. She was disappointed to find a stranger behind the counter. Asking for the manager, the man explained that the original owner of the bakery had passed away a few years ago and he now owned and managed the shop.

On hearing this she broke down with a flood of tears. The owner shut the shop and settled her down in a back room, bringing her a glass of water. She thanked him and began her story. She told about the years of slavery, abuse and neglect she had suffered while working for the previous owner, about how she had finally managed to run away to get as far from him as she could, how she had been forced to make her living on the streets, and how she had saved up enough money to revisit this awful place; to see that justice was done.

She finally stopped speaking and her head slowly drooped. Her awful tale had come to an end. She sat in silence for a while. He, not knowing what to say, stayed quiet. When she looked up and their eyes met, he could see something in them; a fierceness, a maniacal hatred of things past, a vengeance. Methodically, she unzipped her purse and drew out the gun. She held it in her lap and paused.

In that moment they shared a mutual awareness.

He realised that she had only returned for revenge, and she realised that this stranger would adequately fulfil her needs…

Nobody serving on the committee had any respect for the chairman.

Although this was the case, and despite all of the grumblings behind the chairman’s back, it took a long time of brooding on the subject before the rest of the committee got together and decided to take action. A vote of no confidence was held and a new chair was voted in. However, it didn’t take long to realise that the new chair was no better than the first, probably worse. A short while after this, another vote was taken and a new chair was appointed. Being well aware of the history prior to his appointment the new chair was particularly careful not to rock the boat.

Unfortunately, this didn’t work in his favour. His performance was seen as being too wishy-washy. Another vote was taken and another chair was installed. This went well for a bit until the new chair got sick and the deputy chair took over. The deputy wasn’t up to the job and it was not known how long the latest chair would be away. As a result, a new chair was voted in. The new chair also reflected on the way things had been going, but decided to take a different tack. It was decided that a greater sense of discipline was needed to run the committee. This tougher approach caused a fair bit of dissention and an urgent vote was held that saw the original chair voted back in.

With the original chair back in place, a discussion was held regarding the fact that the committee was originally formed in order to review the rules of holding committee meetings. It was generally agreed that because the work of the committee had been continually impeded by constant changes to the chair, the committee should be disbanded.

A vote was held…